


Legally Thug

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 18:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10444317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: prompt: Mickey is a powerful badass defence attorney that everyone fears, and Ian is his new client, wrongfully accused of a murder he didn't commit. They fall in love while working on Ian's case and Mickey gets him free.-If Mickey were ever to be honest about why he chose law, the answer would be spite. Sheer fuckin' spite. Spite for being born into the underprivileged world of south side with a legacy of organised crime bearing down on him; having to turn to illegality just to fuckin' survive. Spite for always being looked down on, even in the ghetto, where Milkovich equated to low of the low; the worst scum. Spite for the fact that no one ever expected him or any of his to make anything of themselves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This request was anonymous, but to whoever you are, I'm so sorry. It was such a serious request, but the moment I read it my brain screamed MICKEY AS ELLE WOODS. I tried really, really hard to ignore that first instinct, but I kept coming back to Legally Blonde's plot line, and, well, here we are. Adapted to fit Mickey and Ian, but heavily based on Legally Blonde. I know it's not exactly what you asked for, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.  
> I got a bit carried away. I also listened to the Legally Blonde soundtrack like twenty times while writing this.

If Mickey were ever to be honest about why he chose law, the answer would be spite. Sheer fuckin' spite. Spite for being born into the underprivileged world of south side with a legacy of organised crime bearing down on him; having to turn to illegality just to fuckin' survive. Spite for always being looked down on, even in the ghetto, where Milkovich equated to low of the low; the worst scum. Spite for the fact that no one ever expected him or any of his to make anything of themselves.

And hey, a lawyer in the family always seemed like a good idea, considering.

It's not like he's clean. He knows it, his family know it, everyone in a fuckin' ten mile radius knows it. Somehow, though, with skill and blackmail and a healthy dose of sheer fuckin' luck, he manages to keep his record clean. His hands are filthy and his conscience ain't clean, but as far as paper goes, he's good.

School is the hardest. He's smart enough, but he don't have the patience for it half time. Not like home is the best study environment. Not like Terry dragging him off on runs all the time isn't disruptive. School is definitely the worst part, but Mickey works hard, knows that he's suffering now but that there will be pay off some day. Delayed gratification. It's a lesson he learns early.

He fires off applications to loads of places. The lows as well as the highs. He harbours a secret dream of Harvard (as stupid and pretentious and downright fuckin' embarassing as that is), but mentions it to no one. He knows he'll probably end up somewhere shit, and then end up settled in some low class firm, but it's fine. Better than anything here. More than what they expect of him.

*

He's certain it's a fuckin' joke the day he gets the acceptance letter.

Mickey turns it slowly in his hands, which are shaking ever so slightly. His breathing is shallow. He steps out front and looks around for the cameras, for the mics, for everyone waiting to laugh at him.

“Ey, yo, Ashton,” he says quietly to the empty street. “You can come out. I'm on to you. Very funny.”

The Punk'd host never materialises, and like a Berocca slowly sinking in a glass of water, acceptance fizzes up through Mickey, making him so giddy with it he feels sick. He's done it. Fuck knows how, but he has. He's rewritten fate. Given himself something he was never meant to have.

He holds the paper gently in his hands like it's somethin' fuckin' sacred and emits a loud, vicious sound of victory. It echoes back to him and he can't help but grin, drunk on his own pride and surprise.

He tells Mandy first. She screams and flings her arms around his neck and he has to thrust the letter up and out of the way so she doesn't crush it.

“Fuck, Mick, you did it! You're doin' it! You're getting out. Shit. Don't look back, okay? Just go. Keep going.” Her voice cracks a bit and Mickey feels himself get teary just from the sound of it.

“You finish school off and then you're comin' with me, alright?”

“To Harvard? Don't think they'd have me.”

“To wherever. Long as it's not here, right? We're getting out, Mands. Both of us. I'll make sure of it.”

“Don't be a sap,” she says, but she's sniffing and wiping her nose with her wrist even as she punches him.

*

Getting rid of his tats is painful. They're fuckin' stupid; something he did far, far too young, when he still had stars in his eyes when he looked at his brothers. It was tradition. All three of the older Milkovich brothers had them, and Mickey had been full of excitement when his initiation came. Losing them now feels like losing part of his identity, but it's something he needs to do. He knows.

Even if Harvard don't kick him on his ass for the offensive ink, ain't no way anyone's gonna let him into a court room with FUCK plastered across his knuckles. So he finds someone to laser them on the cheap, and his hands seem foreign to him when they're done.

“Shit, Mick. Went through with it?” Colin looks at his tinged pink fingers when he comes home.

“Fuckin' 'course I went through with it. You think I was bullshittin'?”

“We've lost him already.” Jamie lowers his head in mournfully, and Mickey throws the TV remote at him. It hits centre of the skull with a satisfyin' _smack. “_ The fuck, Mick?”

Iggy comes wandering out of his bedroom, doing up his trousers as he swagger walks; clear signs he's just had a wank. Mickey's briefly glad he's escaping this fuckin' chaos soon.

“What's up?”

“Mickey's lost his tats,” Colin informs him.

“Shit, man. You were serious about that?”

“What kind of fuckin's idiots are you? Y'know what, don't answer that. 'Course I got them removed. You ever seen a lawyer with knuckle tats? Jesus, fuckin' Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest right here.”

“Who is who?” Jamie asks with interest.

Mickey flips him off with his freshly bare finger.

*

His send off is momentous even by usual Milkovich standards, and he's glad Terry's in the can so his presence can't soil it. His brothers put so much alcohol into him he's still drunk the next day as he gathers his one bag of measly belongings and boards a train. It's a long journey, mixture of train and bus, and for his queasy, hungover ass, it is absolute torture.

Then he's there, and for the first time it's real. Actually real. Physical and imposing as he stands before it. Tall, red bricked, looking the picture of somewhere he does not belong. Fuck. _Fuck._

 _You can do this_ , he tells himself, with a confidence he does not feel. _You've come this fuckin' far._

*

Mickey very quickly discovers that he is not cut out for college. High school was hard, but this place is fuckin' impossible. He doesn't have the organisational skills. He's struggling to keep up with his reading. He puts almost all his time and effort into school work and he's still lagging behind his classmates; never mind the disadvantages he has compared to some of the wealthy assholes here.

His text books are tatty and second hand. His laptop is a slow piece of shit Iggy lifted from a pawn shop as a parting gift for him. He's trying to balance shifts at a shitty pizza place because his student finance is already stretched thin.

It's barely three weeks in and he's ready to quit.

“I was wrong, Mands,” he murmurs down the phone. The slight slur of his voice gives away just how drunk he is. Milkoviches can hold their drink; slurring means he's totally fucked. “Thought I could be different. Thought I could actually make somethin' of myself.”

“You are, Mick.”

“Nah. 'M fuckin' fallin' behind in classes already.” Mickey laughs, bitter. “Ain't even been here a month and 'm already fuckin' up. Thinkin' I should just toss the towel. Stop embarassin' myself. Pretty sure all these prissy, pretentious assholes are laughin' at me behind my back. Ghetto bitch tryna climb outta his coop. Should have known my place.”

“Mickey, you listen to me right now. Are you listening?”

Mickey nods, rubbing the palm of his hand against one of his teary eyes.

“Mick?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm listenin'.”

“Good. If you come back here, I'm gonna stab you.”

“What?”

“I'm gonna get a knife, and I'm gonna stick it right in the fleshy part of your thigh. You won't die from it, but it'll sting like a motherfucker. Then I'm gonna twist it, and the more you scream, the more I'll press into it, until you black out from the pain.”

“What the fuck, Mandy?!”

“You come back here, there's gonna be a queue to kick your ass. I'm at the front, but the boys are right behind me. You got out, Mick. You got what we all fuckin' want. Don't you dare throw this opportunity away, asswipe. Or I swear I will bring you a whole world of pain.”

“Jesus Christ. Alright. I got it.”

“Look, you're smart, you're resourceful, but most of all, you ain't a fuckin' quitter. You'll find a way to make this work. You always find a way to make things work. Okay?” When Mickey only gives her a vague sound in response, Mandy sighs in irritation. “Tell me you're gonna make this work?”

“Okay.”

“Say the words, fuckwad.”

“The words, fuckward.”

“Mickey.”

“Fine. I'm gonna make this work.”

“'Cause you promised, remember? You promised you were gonna get me out of here, too. I'm relying on you.”

“Fuck.” Mickey sniffs, rubbing at his eyes again. “Shit. Yeah. I'm... I'll make it work.”

“Good. Now never call me at three am again or I'm gonna punch you so hard it'll send you back to a more appropriate time to call. Goodnight, Mick.”

Mickey snorts.

“Night, Mands.”

*

“Oh my God. What is this? Are you actually readin' somethin' that ain't a gossip mag? I'm gob smacked, really.”

“Fuuuck you.” Mickey flips off Tyrone, his teenage co-worker at Paulie's Pizza Paradise, but the boy only grins in response.

“Could kill a horse with this fuckin' brick. What is it? One of them hobbit books?”

“I really look like a guy who would read about hobbits?”

“No offence, man, but you don't really strike me as the readin' type at all, y'feel?” He tugs at Mickey's textbook, dancing back when Mickey slaps him away. His second attempt is flicking the cover side up so he can check the spine. “Shit. The fuck you readin' 'bout law for? You in trouble or somethin'?”

“Nah, I'm a student. Gotta keep up with my readin'. The amount of shit they expect us to know...”

“You're fuckin' with me.”

“Nope. Harvard.”

“Alright now you're definitely pullin' my leg. Ain't no way you got into Harvard!”

“What? Like it's hard.” Mickey quirks an eyebrow, deadpan.

“Nah. You're fuckin' with me.”

Mickey sends him the most withering look he can manage. Of course, even here, even after he's managed to get in, people still doubt him. You can take the boy out of the ghetto... Or some fuckin' shit like that.

“No shit?” Tyrone's expression softens a touch when Mickey doesn't express any kind of amusement.

“No fuckin' shit, except what you got for brains.”

“Oh, wow. Sorry, Mickey. I didn't mean to talk you down or nothin'. Y'know, my uncle's a lawyer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He didn't go to no fancy school like Harvard, but he still ended up pretty well. People didn't think he'd do it, y'know? Black boys comin' from where he come from don't get to be nothin' like fancy lawyers, but he did it anyway, and now the bitch is loaded.”

“And yet you're workin' in this shit hole.”

“Hey, his money, not ours. And anyway, my momma says hard work promotes character.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

*

Mickey applies for Callahan's internship, but with little hope of success. He's been pushing himself, fightin' tooth and nail to catch up with his class, and the effort is showing. He's doin' better in debates, getting better marks in his papers, able to actively engage with class discussions. Doesn't matter, he still knows he's not as good as some of his classmates.

Fuck, though. That's basically a promise of a guaranteed career. What he wouldn't do...

When the sheet goes up, he doesn't bother to check it as his class spills out. He's itchin' with curiosity, but he's not gonna publicly embarrass himself. He'll have a look later, see what preppy bitches got in. The kind of assholes who probably have enough family rep to get them placements anyway.

“Shit. Milkovich got in.”

“That's unexpected.”

“Hey! Hey, Mickey. You got in.”

He freezes, head turning slowly. Wary. Is this a joke?

“Ha ha.”

“No, bro, seriously.”

“Get the fuck outta my way.” Mickey pushes his way through them to glare at the list, expecting laughter. What he actually gets is a few pats on the back and one shoulder punch, 'cause there it is, clear as day: _Mikhailo Milkovich_. Would prefer he didn't have to suffer the formality of his full name, but shit, not like he's gonna complain right now. His name. In black and white.

“Well done, Milkovich.”

Mickey sniffs, shrugs, turns and stomps off like it's no big deal. He holds his breath until he gets around the corner, exhaling shakily as he finally lets it fully sink in.

“Yes,” he says, complete with little fist pump. “Fuckin' A.”

He immediately calls Mandy.

“What is it this time, asswipe?”

“I got the internship.” He has to hold the phone away from his ear as Mandy screams her delight.

“Fuck, that's great. Ugh, you fuckin' bookworm, you're really doin' it, ain't you?”

“Yeah.” Mickey takes a shaky breath that crackles down the line. “Yeah, I'm doin' it.”

*

Ian Gallagher's nails are bitten down to the skin, but that doesn't stop him gnawing nervously at his fingers. The skin around his nails is torn and raw, bloody in places. Probably a nervous habit. Given the fact he's currently facing a whole table full of lawyers here to interrogate him on his murder case, Mickey thinks it's probably excusable. Ian's eyes flick between the faces; mostly young, mostly students. He looks like he's assessing them, wondering if they can do shit for him. The Callahan firm itself comes with a great deal of renown, and Ian has been extremely lucky to be picked as one of the pro bono cases they take on as student case studies, but faced with a table full of people barely older than himself, Mickey can see he doesn't feel very confident.

His eyes catch Mickey's and his face instantly lights up with recognition. South side sees south side. Mickey watches with quiet amusement at the stunned look on Ian's face; like he's questioning if he's fuckin' lost it. Like the seams of reality are beginnin' to unravel, 'cause what the fuck is Mickey Milkovich doin' in a crowd of Harvard Law students?

“Mr Gallagher, I believe we can play off that, get some sympathy,” Callahan is saying when Ian finally checks back in again. Ian's eyes flick to him, and it's clear he hasn't been taking in a word.

“Play off what?”

“Your recent mental health diagnosis?” Callahan pauses, a touch wary. “Obviously, you were not of sound mind-”

“I didn't do it.”

“Exactly. You didn't know what you were doing.”

“I'm not crazy. I know exactly what I was doing, and I was not killing Ned.”

“I thought the dead guy was called Lloyd?” one of the girls whispers, looking around her classmates.

“Went by Ned,” Mickey hisses back. “Didn't you read the fuuu- the case notes?”

Ian smiles at his efforts to censor himself. Mickey gives him a brief nod, letting him know he also recognises him.

“Right, but if we take a guilty plea, we might be able to-”

“I'm not pleading guilty.”

“Mr Gallagher.” Callahan slows his voice, as if dealing with a rowdy child. Ian stretches out his leg like he's inspired to act like one and considering kicking Callahan. Ultimately, he doesn't. “We could get you a good plea bargain.”

“I'm not saying I did somethin' I didn't.”

“You were found with the body. You were covered in the victim's blood.”

“Yeah, I'd just fuckin' found him. I was checkin' for a pulse and tryna resuscitate him. I called 911-”

“Which I'm sure the judge will take into consideration.”

“I'm not pleading guilty.”

Callahan takes a moment, and Ian looks a touch satisfied at his drained expression. He doesn't believe him. Mickey knows that. This guy don't give a fuckin' shit about a kid like Ian; he just wants to move onto the next case, hopefully one with a big fat pay cheque rather than this charity case. Mickey shifts his weight to his other foot and looks Gallagher over. He don't look like someone who could commit murder. Fuck, he's still a kid, but then, the notes say he's bipolar and Mickey's had a Google of that, knows it can sometimes cause destructive behaviour.

“Then you had better give me one hell of an alibi, Mr Gallagher. Tell me where you were at the time he was shot? Prove you couldn't have done that.”

Ian shakes his head.

“This is not up for debate, Mr Gallagher. We go in there without an alibi, this case is over. Just like that. You're goin' down.”

Ian just shakes his head again, and says nothing for the rest of their interview. Mickey kinda respects his stubbornness.

*

Mickey knows he could get into a shitload of trouble if he's caught, but fuck it. It's a risk he has to take. Ian's south side; and while there's a lot of shit goes down there, Mickey knows the south side rules. Ain't no fuckin' snitches. Which makes him think Ian's alibi is somethin' unsavoury.

“Wasn't expectin' any visitors.” Ian looks completely and utterly exhausted. His eyes have dark shadows beneath them. He's pale, even for a redhead; sickly kinda pale. He leans against the divider for support as he nurse the phone against his ear.

“That orange clashes somethin' awful with your hair.”

“Callahan send you?”

“Nah, he don't know I'm here.”

“So why are you here?”

“I need your alibi.”

Ian sighs, heavily, and his eyes roll so far back Mickey thinks they're gonna disappear into his fuckin' head.

“I didn't-”

“I'm not asking if you did.”

“I can't-”

“Can't tell Callahan, no, 'cause he's gonna drag it through the court. I'm assumin' it's somethin' you don't want anyone to know, right? No one likes airing their dirty laundry in public, but listen, kid. It's your call whether it's worth goin' down for. Either way, I ain't gonna tell no one.”

Ian looks at Mickey levelly through the glass. He rubs his thumb against the raw, chewed up skin of his index finger.

“'Kay, so, I know they're paintin' me as some crazy gold digger who upped and ran away with the rich guy he was havin' an affair with, but, like, Ned didn't even have that much money when we left. His wife freaked out; he lost a whole lot. His son's been helpin' him.”

“So why did you go with him, then?”

“I dunno. I wanted out. I wanted away from home. Everything just repeats itself. Everything's always the same... I felt suffocated.” Ian sniffs, breaking their eye contact now to stare down. “They're sayin' that's a symptom of the bullshit disease they think I've got, but anyone who lives there knows you don't gotta be sick to feel that way.”

“Right. I get it.”

“Anyway, so I wasn't just leechin' money. I was workin'. I was puttin' in my share.”

“That where you were when it happened?”

“Yeah.”

“What's the big fuckin' deal, then? That's a solid alibi. Surely your employer-”

“I work in a gay club. I'm an underage dancer who worked the back of the bar as well as the front. I was with a client that night, fuckin' for money, alright?”

“Shit.” That's definitely not what Mickey was expecting.

“I say that, I'm gonna get the club in trouble, and I'm probably gonna get done for prostitution. I just- I don't want that following me. I didn't kill him. They've gotta be able to prove that, forensics or some shit-”

“Look, Ian, you've been square with me so I'm gonna be square with you,” Mickey says, leaning forward on his elbows. “This is bad for you. Like, real fuckin' bad. All the evidence is currently pointin' at you, and the media have created a whole myth to turn the public against you; just like you said, mentally unstable gold digging twerk.”

Ian sighs again, much more tired this time.

“You're gonna tell them.”

“Fuck, no. I ain't no snitch. I'm just sayin' you should think about it. And the crazy thing as well-”

“I'm _not_ fuckin' crazy.”

“Right. Mentally ill or whatever. Callahan's right, we can play off that. Just... Think about it, okay?”

“I'm not gonna change my mind, Mickey.”

It's Mickey's turn to sigh. Ian sits a little straighter, meets his eyes again. Mickey feels a little spark of something he doesn't recognise, like an electric jolt through him.

“You still gonna help me?” Ian asks, so soft it's nearly lost in the crackle of the line.

“I'm gonna try.”

*

“So,” Callahan says. “It's looking very likely we're working with a guilty party.”

“Nah, we ain't.”

“Excuse my doubt, Mr Milkovich, but why is it you're so certain?”

“'Cause I got his alibi.”

Every head turns towards him with surprise.

“You what?”

“Yeah, I went back to see Ian and he gave me his alibi.”

“You know you should not be having independent contact with our client, especially unsupervised.” Callahan frowns, disapproving, arms crossed over his chest. Mickey has to swallow down the irritated retorts that rise automatically in his throat. “But I appreciate you taking initiative. That's exactly the kind of hungry determination you require in this field. So, what is it?”

“I can't say.”

“Why, exactly, is that?”

“I gave my word.”

“Without that alibi, Mr Milkovich, we have no foundation for defence.”

“Well then, we ain't very good lawyers, are we? I'm no snitch. I told the kid it's his choice whether he gives up the alibi or not. You won't get it from me.”

*

“No shit, man. You actually said that to him?” Tyrone pauses in his half assed effort of wiping down the counter to look up at Mickey, impressed.

“Yeah.”

“Did he cut you loose?”

“Nah, shockingly. Thought I was getting dropped for sure.”

“Would be a lot easier with the alibi, though.”

“'Course it fuckin' would. You think I don't know that? We'd be able to get witnesses, too. Give us a good, solid defence, but nah, kid's stubborn as shit.”

“You almost say that like it's a good thing.”

Mickey shrugs.

“Guess he reminds me of myself a bit.”

*

One of the arguments put against Ian is that he was having an affair with one of the room attendants of the hotel he was residing in with Ned, further building the image of him as unfaithful gold digging whore. Well, they're right about the unfaithful bit, but Mickey keeps that to himself. The poor kid looks fuckin' run ragged. They're pumpin' drugs into him in jail, leavin' him bleary and barely able to fuckin' keep up in court.

“I never,” Ian murmurs, dejected. Callahan hasn't been taking much note of anything he's been saying. He's doing his best to keep up his streak of winning cases, but Mickey can tell he still doesn't trust Ian. Pompous asshole.

Mickey meets the supposed fling when he pops off to the bathroom during their brief recess. He stands at the urinal next to him. Side eyes him.

“Alright, cupcake. You a pitcher or a catcher, then?”

“Fuck off, faggot.”

Mickey struggles with the bubbling anger, because clearly the witness ain't recognised him, and he's just given himself away. He practically jogs back to his group.

“He's straight.”

“What?”

“Bennett. He's straight.”

“How do you-”

“Just trust me on this.”

Callahan sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose.

“This better not come back to embarrass me, Milkovich.”

“Swear. He's straight as a fuu- as a ruler.”

*

“So, Mr Bennett. This alleged affair with Mr Gallagher has been going on for-?

“Two months.”

“And your first name again is?”

“Alan.”

“And your girlfriend's name is?”

“Brittany.”

“Your Honour.”

“Wait- No, wait. I- Uh.”

Mickey leans back and smirks. When Ian hazily glances over his shoulder at him, Mickey throws him a wink. Ian smiles briefly. Mickey feels that electric spark again.

*

“Sit down,” Callahan says, and Mickey eyes him warily as he takes a seat in his office, wondering why he's here. Fuck. Has he been caught out? He's been workin' so hard, but has something from his past finally caught up? Perhaps Callahan is seeing him for the fraud he is.

“Everything alright?”

“You followed your intuition today and you were right on target.”

“Er. Thanks?”

“About the alibi-”

“Look-”

“I'm impressed that you took the initiative to go there and get it. That's what makes a good lawyer. On top of that, you gained the client's trust and kept it. That's what makes a great lawyer. You're smart, Mickey. Smarter than a lot of the guys on my payroll.”

“Ey.” Mickey squirms, uncomfortable with the praise. Something so foreign to him. “Thanks.”

“I think it's time we discuss your career path. Have you thought about where you might be summer associative?” Callahan moves to sit across from Mickey.

“Not really. I know it's very competitive.”

“Well you know what competition is really about, don't you? It's about ferocity, carnage, balancing human intelligence with animal diligence. Knowing exactly what you want, and how far you'll go to get it.” Callahan puts his hand on Mickey's knee, and Mickey's eyebrows head for his hairline. “How far will Mickey go?”

“You hittin' on me?”

“I'm a man who knows what he wants.” Callahan's hand slides further up Mickey's thigh, and Mickey pulls his own hand back, then brings it forward in a fist to punch Callahan in the face full force.

“And I'm a law student who just found out his professor is pathetic asshole.”

Callahan looks up at him, clutching his bloody nose, and Mickey has to fight the urge to punch him in his fuckin' stupid face again. He turns and storms off.

“Too bad,” he hears Callahan calling after him. “I thought you were a law student who wanted to be a lawyer.”

*

He's fucked. Completely and utterly. No way he can go back to school after assaulting a professor.

Fuck. _Fuck._

For once, Mickey doesn't go to Mandy. Doesn't know how to tell her he's fucked up. After everything. After all the work, all the opportunities. Stupid to believe he could be anything other than a disappointment.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You alright?” Ian leans a little closer to the glass. “You look kinda rough.”

“Yeah, look, I just came to tell you that I ain't gonna be one of your lawyers any more.”

“What? Why?” Ian's eyes widen in alarm and he sits straighter, a buzz of panic about him. It's the most alive Mickey's seen him look.

“It's a long story.”

“I'm not goin' anywhere.”

“Look, Callahan's a fuckin' geriatric pervert, alright? He tried to hit on me, I clocked him one.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't want him to be my lawyer any more.”

“No, Ian-”

“Shut up. I don't want someone like that defending me. I'll get a public defender-”

“Ian, listen to me. He's an asshole, but he's a good lawyer with a good reputation. You're already suffering in this case. You get one of those shitty public defenders, you're going down. And kid, you're too pretty for prison.”

“I'm _in_ prison.”

“Yeah and your focus should be getting out ASAP.”

“Then you represent me.”

“I don't think I can do that.”

“Well, I'm dumpin' Callahan. Don't matter what you say.” Ian sets his jaw, chin jutting out in determination, and Mickey knows he's lost this battle. He sighs, rubbing tiredly at his face.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Mickey.” Ian smiles; a small, soft smile, but a smile all the same. “And I'm glad you think I'm pretty.”

Mickey flips him off, but his stomach sets off that increasingly familiar spark.

*

“You said your uncle was a lawyer, right?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey sucks on his lip briefly. He hates asking for help, but, well... It's not really help for _him._ It's help for Ian.

“Would he be willin' to do me a favour?”

“You want him to vouch for you at the school? Not sure that'll do much.”

“Nah, ain't that. I got an idea.”

*

Mickey bursts into the court and strides down the aisle with his head held high, ignoring the curious glances of the crowd. He passes through the swinging gate and stands over Callahan, staring him down. Tyrone's uncle, Dace Hall, behind him.

“Ey, Callahan, you're in my seat.”

Callahan looks from Mickey to a smug, smirking Ian with confusion. Mickey is satisfied to see he's got an impressive shiner. Fuckin' wanker deserves it.

“He's a law student. He can't defend you.”

“Actually,” Dace says. “Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court ruling 3.03.”

“See?” Mickey grins. “Thank you, Dace.”

“Counsellors,” says the judge. “Approach the bench.”

As Mickey steps forward, Callahan puts a hand out to halt him.

“You're not going up there.”

“Yes I am.”

“I'm sorry, maybe you didn't hear me,” Ian says, leaning over Callahan, and looking so sassy that Mickey can't help but grin at him. “You're _fired._ ”

“Counsellors. All of you. Now.”

“Mickey Milkovich, your honour. Rule 3.03 of Supreme Judicial Court states that a law student may appear on behalf of a defendant in criminal proceedings.”

“Your Honour, I have no problem with this,” says the opposing lawyer.

“I do,” says Callahan. “I won't allow it.”

“Oh, but you agreed last night,” Mickey says, turning to glance at Callahan coyly. “In your office. When we were discussing my career.”

“The ruling also states that you need a licensed attorney to supervise you,” the judge says. “Mr Callahan?”

“That I won't agree to.”

“That's why I'm here, your Honour. Dace Hall, licensed attorney, at your service.”

“Well then, Mr Milkovich, proceed.”

“Thank you, your Honour.”

Callahan stands in quiet, angry shock as Mickey returns to sit beside Ian. Eventually, with a dismissive nod from the judge, he turns and walks back. Glancing at Ian with a nasty smile as he collects his briefcase.

“Enjoy prison.”

Ian barely glances at him, raising his head dismissively and smiling, self satisfied. Mickey feels a flutter of pride that he doesn't rise to the bait.

“Mr Gallagher, you do realise what you're doing?” the judge asks.

“Absolutely.”

The doors to the court room open only moments after they've swung shut behind Callahan, and there's a flourish of noise as all of Mickey's siblings pour in. He has to fight very hard not to let irritation bleed into his expression.

“There he is!” Iggy points, as if any of the others could have fuckin' missed him. “Mick!”

“Yo, Mick,” Jamie chimes in.

“We came to see your trial.”

Mandy seems to realise their faux pas under the scrutiny of a roomful of judgemental eyes, and punches both brothers in the arm.

“Ow!”

“What the-”

“Gentlemen, take a seat,” the judge barks, and Mandy and Colin usher the other two into a row a few seats back from Mickey. Iggy mouthing encouragement at him while Mandy throws him a smile, and Colin gives him a thumbs up.

*

Ned's son, Jimmy, is called to the stand as a witness. Now if he had of been the one claiming to be having an affair with Ian, Mickey might have believed it. He certainly looks the part; with his cushiony ass and the nest of curls on his head.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the bailiff asks him.

“I do,” Jimmy says, his hand on the bible.

“Be seated.”

“Mr Milkovich, you may begin your questioning,” the judge says, and Mickey stands.

“Uhh. First of all, I'd like to point out that not only is there no proof in this case, there's also a complete lack of, um, mens rea; meaning there can be no crime without a vicious will.”

“I am aware of the meaning of mens rea. So cut the vocabulary lesson, and question your witness.”

“Right, your Honour. Um. Mr Lishman. When you arrived at the hotel suite, was your father there?”

“Not that I saw, but like I said, I went right to take a shower.”

“And when you came out?”

“I saw Ian, standing over his body, drenched in his blood.”

“But Mr Gallagher didn't have a gun?”

“No. He'd stashed it by that point.” Jimmy leans his elbows on the side of the chair, his face blank and his tone deadpan.

“Can we strike that from the record, Your Honour?” Dace intercedes. “It's speculation.”

“So stricken.”

Mickey glances back at Dace, and he nods his encouragement, but Mickey has shit all idea where to go from here. It's one thing putting himself forward to defend Ian, but actually standing up in court, he's suddenly glaringly aware of the fact that's he's only a student, and he has no real idea what he's doin'. This ain't some debate in class. This is a real case with real affected lives. Shit.

“Uhhh. Mr Lishman, did you hear a shot fired?”

“No. I was in the shower.”

“Okay... So... Sometime in the, say, twenty minutes? You were in the shower. Your father was shot.”

“I guess.”

“But you didn't hear the shot, 'cause... 'Cause you were in the shower.”

“Yes. I was washing my hair.”

Mickey flounders, helpless, flicking through the file in his hands as if somehow it will produce something he's missing, some way to pull this case outta the bag. He looks at Dace with panic, who only offers him an encouraging smile. Which, really, is shit all help.

“Mr Lishman, what had you done earlier that day?”

“I got up, got a latte, went to the gym, got a perm, then came home.”

Mickey blinks, and suddenly the light bulb dings to life above his head.

“Where you got in the shower.”

“I believe the witness has made it clear that he was in the shower,” says the judge, and the room titters with laughter. Mickey chuckles along, 'cause he has what he needs now.

“Yes, your honour,” he says with a smile, then turns back to Jimmy. “So, Mr Lishman, you ever gotten a perm before?”

“Yeah. Two a year since my teens. I quite think I suit curls.”

“Well, that's neither here nor there,” Mickey says, with a tone that suggests he disagrees. He turns to face the jury. “Y'know, I read gossip rags sometimes when I'm bored at work. Those kinda magazines you find in the waiting rooms of hairdressers and dentists. With the celeb gossip. You know what I'm talking about?”

Some of the jury nod their acknowledgement.

“Objection,” the opposing lawyer says. “Why is this relevant?”

Mickey glances towards the judge.

“I have a point.”

“Then make it.”

“See, those kinda magazines also have tips; fashion, beauty, _hair_. I may have skimmed a few in my time, and I can remember one I read about perm maintenance. It emphasised that you ain't supposed to get your hair wet for at least twenty four hours after getting a perm. Deactivates whatever chemicals. Ain't that right, Mr Lishman?”

“Uhh... Yes?”

“And as someone who's self confessed to havin' plenty of perms before, wouldn't you be well aware of this?”

Jimmy's mouth opens and closes as he tries to stumble out some kind of reasoning or excuse, and Mickey knows he's got him, knows he just has to wrap it up and go in for the kill.

“And if in fact you weren't washin' your hair, as I suspect you weren't as your curls are still intact, then wouldn't you have heard the gunshot? And if you had in fact heard the gunshot, Ian Gallagher wouldn't have had time to hide the gun before you came through to the bedroom, which would mean you would have to have found Mr Gallagher with a gun in his hand to make your story plausible. Ain't that right?”

“He's younger than me,” Jimmy bursts out, leaning forward. “How would you feel if your father was sleepin' with some teenager? And it's like, I keep thinking about it. His cock in my father's mouth- And my whole life, re-evaluated. Was he checkin' out my friends when they came over? That good friend of his, were they really playin' golf-”

“You, however, had time to hide the gun, Jimmy. Didn't you?” Mickey pushes on, taking advantage of his emotional outburst. “After you shot your father.”

“I didn't mean to shoot him. I thought it was _you_ walking through the door.” Jimmy stands and points a finger towards Ian, his face flush with anger. The room stirs with shocked conversation. Realising what he's done, Jimmy's hand flies to cover his mouth, as if somehow he can pull the confession back.

“Order!” The judge bangs her gavel. “Order.”

“No further questions, your Honour.” Mickey smirks as he makes his way back to his seat.

*

Mickey doesn't really get to see Ian right away, 'cause once the case is announced as dismissed, he's basically swept up into the arms of his brothers and swung up and down while he loudly protests. When he's finally placed on his feet again, Mandy punches him on the arm.

“Look at your, Mr Fancypants Lawyer.” She grins at him. Mickey grins back. Then she bounces forward and envelopes him tightly in a hug. “We're taking you celebrating tonight. No arguments.”

“Won't get any arguments from me.” Mickey laughs, then catches sight of Ian over Mandy's shoulder, lingering and rubbing his arm. “Hey, I needa go talk to my client, alright?”

“His _client._ ” Colin grins, and Mickey feels an odd rush of emotion that his brothers seem to be as stupidly proud for him as Mandy is. He expects it from Mandy, but their support is a surprise. “Listen to this guy.”

Mickey rolls his eyes but makes his way over to Ian.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Ian, despite being taller, somehow manages to smile up at him through his lashes. “You were great out there.”

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you. No way Callahan would have been able to get me off like that.” Ian raises a suggestive eyebrow and Mickey will deny to the end of the earth that the innuendo causes him to blush. Then Ian clears his throat and turns more serious. “Really. You didn't spill my alibi and you still managed to win that case. You were so... Calm and collected out there, it was amazin'. You're amazin', Mickey. I was real lucky to have you as my lawyer. I'm just sorry I couldn't offer you anything for it.”

“Hey, no, it's cool-”

“Son, I've got to run,” Dace interrupts them, giving Mickey's shoulder a warm squeeze. “I have a meeting to get to, but you were spectacular out there. If that's anything to go by, you're gonna have an amazing career. Remember, keep in contact and we'll see about summer associate, alright?”

“Okay. And thanks a lot for doin' this. I'd have been lost without you.”

“My pleasure.” Dace gives him another squeeze before heading off.

“I think your family is waiting for you,” Ian says, nodding to the group of Milkoviches watching Mickey expectantly.

“They can wait. Hey, look, you need a place to stay?”

“I, uh. I should probably go home.”

“Right. Well. How about you come out for a few drinks with us to celebrate your newfound freedom, and then you can head back to Chicago with these idiots when they're goin'?”

“I don't want to impose-”

“Ian. You gave me this opportunity. If it weren't for you, I'd have just packed my shit and left. Just... Come with us, alright? You really fuckin' look like you could use a drink.”

“Alright.”

*

There are far too many bodies in his dorm room that night. Mandy ends up curled in his room mate's bed, who is also pissed after some campus party he's been at. Mickey slurs a warning about not getting too handsy with his sister, but he's almost certain it's ignored. Joey, Jamie and Colin dominate most of the floor space, so pissed that they're out as soon as they go down. Probably for the best, 'cause Mickey ain't got no spare blankets for them.

Ian hovers awkwardly, but at Mickey's prompting, crawls into his bed with him. They lie face to face, their bare knees pressing together. Mickey can just about make out Ian's feature in the dim light of the street lamps coming through the thin curtains. His stomach is sparking in that way only Ian prompts. He can feel Ian's breath against his face. His heart beats overtime.

“It was really hot seein' you up there today,” Ian murmurs. His hand absently strokes against Mickey's hip where his shirt has ridden up, and somewhere in the back of his mind there's a panic response that tells him to shut this shit down, but it's stifled under a blanket of intoxication. “All professional and lawyer-y.”

“Lawyer-y. That's totally a word.”

“Shut up.” Ian hides his smile against the pillow, bumping his knee against Mickey's in reprimand. “And you look really good in a suit.”

“Are you hittin' on me?”

“No. Maybe. No.” Ian chews his lower lip, then dramatically whispers: “Sorry.”

“It's... It's okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“No objections?” Ian grins, lopsided, and Mickey knees him this time.

“You're such a fuckin' dork.”

“But a pretty dork?”

“Yeah. A pretty dork.” It's Mickey's turn to smile, sleepily, as the alcohol in his blood starts to lull him.

“Hey, Mick?”

“Mm?”

“Will you come visit me when you get home?”

“Yeah, Ian. I'll come visit you.” His eyes flutter shut, and he doesn't move away when Ian closes the distance, tangling their legs together and wrapping Mickey in his hold. He just wriggles closer, breathes him in, and drifts off to sleep.

 


End file.
